Monday, August 15, 2011

I stopped pumping and breastfeeding. I'm 100% okay with my decision. In fact, I'm quite happy with it right now. My stress levels are much more manageable, and I feel like I can be a better mom for Joy. My hormones already are starting to feel like they're getting back to normal, and my appetite is back to normal. It's so great not feeling like I haven't eaten for at least a day when I wake up in the morning! It's great eating a meal and not being hungry almost immediately after. I feel like I have a lot more time to exercise and clean and play with Joy and sleep. It's fantastic!

Monday, August 8, 2011

If my boobs were high school cheerleaders, they would be kicked off the team. They don't have any team spirit and instead are depressing me!

First, I have supply issues. They refuse to make enough milk to feed my baby. They always have. 'Fine, boobs. You win this round!' I conceded after many tears and ridiculous amounts of desperate measures and unsolicited and unhelpful advice. So life went on. But now it appears as though they've decided to fight me some more, drizzling out barely any milk. The past few days have been brutal. Do I really want to keep up with all this torturous extra work and frustration just to get a handful of ounces of milk for my growing girl? I'm *thisclose* to just throwing in the nursing pads, so to speak.

Which brings another thought to my mind. Why is it that my boobs, even though they've CLEARLY never held much milk, still leak? I can't pump from both sides at once, because pumping requires one hand to hold the pump forcefully to my boob (leaving lovely circle indents after the fact) while the other squeezes away, like trying to get water from a rock. And while I am emptying Tightey, Lucy leaks. So I recently tried starting with Lucy, which doesn't tend to make Tightey leak as much, but also seems to have led to Tightey producing less milk. Ugh! As it is, the constant squeezing has led to my discovering I apparently have arthritis in my hands. Thanks boobs! You are real... boobs! If my boobs were a person, I'd probably murder that person by strangulation with my own bare, arthritic hands.

In other news, Joy is becoming more mobile every day. We relocated our coffee table from the family room to the guest room. I want to get rid of it, actually, but it'll stay there for now, I guess. So now our family room is not only more open, but there's space for her to entertain herself on the floor and, as she just demonstrated her capability, move from the middle of a quilt on the floor all the way to the side of the couch, backwards. Honestly, I'm not quite sure how she arrived at her final destination, as I was pumping & checking email, so my laptop screen was in the way. But then all of a sudden, I felt her ribs touching the side of my foot and looked down to revel in her accomplishments. And cry. I am so not ready for this. Couldn't she continue to sleep for like 18 hours a day or something?

She recently started saying "mamamama" and "babababa" and sometimes even "mama" itself. Joe thinks it makes a good excuse to get out of holding her or something and pass her off to me because "she's calling for YOU." I told him she doesn't know what she's saying, but I do wonder if sometimes she actually does, the way she says it while whimpering or crying and looking at me. She's often staring at me. It's kind of creepy. This "mama" wishes she'd learn to say "dada" soon like a good girl. I'm working on trying to teach that to her, I assure you.

Joy doesn't laugh much. Most of the time she does, it's when she's getting her diaper changed. Yeah, I'm not really sure what to think of that one either. Maybe I'm partly to blame. I started singing to her when changing her diaper when she was a newborn because I didn't want her to scream or hate it when she had it changed. I can say that at least she doesn't hate it, but the removal of a pee-soaked or foul-smelling diaper isn't as funny as I am. Her farts are, but she only rarely chuckles at those. We need to work on that kid's sense of humor (or lack thereof).

How about instead of "mama" you stroke my ego a bit by laughing when I want you to? After all, I and my boobs sacrifice a LOT for you!